“Ghosted van doors? We don’t even have that technology. What’s it doing on a ten-year-old junker?”
While setting up the drills, Melissa had kept an ear on the discussion between Cahill and Bond. She listened with great interest about the phantom truck that appeared on the highway, sending one police cruiser into opposite lanes. The ability to create a three-dimensional image of that size—on a fast-moving freeway, no less—was far beyond the capability of any lumic projector.
Suddenly a colorful streak emerged from the passenger side of the van, disappearing beyond the confines of the ghost field.
“Whoa! Did you see that?”
“Rewind and replay,” Melissa told her teammate. “Tenth speed.”
Even at slow playback, it took three attempts for the technicians to catch Hannah in motion, and then another twelve adjustments to achieve an unblurred freeze-frame. Now every law enforcer fixed their stare on the frightened young thing with the nightstick in her hand, a woman who moved at triple-digit velocity.
The Deps crossed into the image field, studying Hannah up close. Like breathing underwater or walking through fire, speeding was a perfectly mundane accomplishment with the proper gear. But in her flimsy cotton tank top and grass-stained running shorts, this woman did not have the equipment to do what she was currently doing.
Cahill tossed a muddled glance at Melissa. “I fig you never saw anything like this in Europe.”
“No, sir. Nothing even close.”
While Hannah’s speedy feat was enough to rattle all investigators, her sister’s angry hands truly shook their world.
Thirty-two more seconds of playback passed before Amanda emerged from the van. Though the ghosts were soundless, the lip-reader on the team relayed the tense words exchanged between the redhead and the two local policemen. A short teenage girl suddenly burst through the ghosted rear doors. One of the officers fired his gun in surprise. Then things got weird.
Now all the cops and Deps on scene stared in muted wonder at the frozen image of Amanda’s tempic outburst. The technician paused playback just as the policemen were slammed down to the pavement by her shimmering white hands, each one the size of a coffee table.
Melissa walked a slow, shambling circle around Amanda, straining her mind to find a sensible explanation. To accept this sight at face value involved pushing her skeptical boundaries five yards away from reason, toward the land of aliens and vampires.
She made several notes in her handtop before rejoining Cahill at the edge of the ghost field.
“So what are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking the Bureau may owe Wingo an apology, sir.”
Cahill chuckled. Alexander Wingo was a dark legend among the Deps. He’d been a rising star at DP-1, known all throughout the Bureau for his deductive brilliance and flamboyant eccentricities. Thirty-six years ago, a perplexing homicide investigation took him into strange territory, and he became obsessed with a secret society of time-bending superpeople he dubbed the Gothams.
Wingo soon quit the Bureau to become a full-time crusader. His best-selling book, Children of the Halo, inspired a generation of rumors, myths, and hoaxes. To this day, the Gothams remained a favored topic among the crackpot fringe.
“Let’s table the crazy stuff for a moment,” said Cahill. “What do you make of the people?”
“They’re all young and frightened. Given the state of the van, as well as their injuries, it’s clear they engaged in battle before the police discovered them. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find more casualties in their wake.”
“Motley assortment here. Four adults and two teens. I’d guess they were all kin if it wasn’t for the chinny. Where do you think he fits in all this?”
Melissa studied Theo’s ghost. “They wouldn’t have left him near the revolver if they didn’t trust him. Whoever he is, he’s one of them. He’s not Chinese, by the way.”
“How do you know?”
“The tattoo on his left wrist is Baybayin. It’s an old writing script of the Philippines, pre–Spanish colonialization.”
Melissa had been on Cahill’s staff for twenty-two months now. In her early days, he feared she was hopelessly out of her element, a fish in the desert. Now he wished he could clone a whole team of her.
“If you want to embarrass me further, you can tell me what the ink says.”
“It’s been years since I studied the language,” Melissa confessed. “Best I can figure, it says rama. Or possibly kama.”
“Kama?”
It wasn’t until she said it out loud that Melissa fit the pieces together. “Karma, sir.”
For the hundredth time, Cahill locked his gaze on Amanda and her great tempic arms.
“I get the sense that none of these people are out hunting for victims. They only attack when cornered. I suppose I should find some comfort in that. At the moment, I just want to break out the wet card and drink myself silly.”
“Understandable, sir. I imagine you’ll be postponing your sunset now.”